Mercy Me

by Tracy L. Ward

  “She is?” Jeremiah found it odd to be having such a conversation within such easy hearing of so many others. He knew Mercy to be a trickster, one who preyed upon those who were so easily swayed. She practically admitted as much.

  “Yes, I’d bet my badge on it.”

  Jeremiah raised an eyebrow.

  “Let me tell you about my son.” Johnson beckoned Jeremiah to follow him out of the foyer and down the hall. “Five years ago Matthew was very ill. I don’t expect you to recall. We told very few people at the time. Our physician told us he was incurable. It was some malady of the blood, or some sort. The science behind it was beyond my understanding. He was sick and that was enough for me.”

  “That’s awful, sir.” Jeremiah’s throat went dry. Matthew was nearly twelve now, Jeremiah realized as they turned into the chief’s office.

  “We got a second opinion and a third and fourth. They all said the same. It was incurable and he’d most likely die within a year or two.” The chief got a far-off look in his eyes as he took his seat behind his desk. “My wife got the idea that we should go to Ms. Eaton. To be honest, I don’t know why I agreed to it. Seemed to be a bunch of mumbo jumbo, if you asked me. But I went to appease my wife.”

  Jeremiah forced a frown. He wasn’t entirely sure where this story was headed.

  “She told us… whether it was from the spirits or whatever, it doesn’t matter. She told us not to lose hope.” The man’s chin trembled when he paused. “She held my hand and my wife’s hand, and she looked us in the eyes and said, ‘Don’t lose hope.’ Now, I can’t tell you how much that meant to my wife and me. We were lost. We didn’t know where to turn and Ms. Eaton told us there were some new medicines being developed all the time and that she thought one was destined to help our son.” A small chuckle escaped Johnson as he brushed away a tear. “She was right. Eight months later we received a visit from the physician at Victoria Hospital for Sick Children. They had a cure and it was wonderful. Matthew was going to be all right.”

  “That’s amazing, sir,” Jeremiah said.

  “Ms. Eaton told us not to lose hope. She gave us strength when we had none and for that we are eternally grateful. Ms. Eaton is a wonderful, wonderful person.”

  Jeremiah found himself nodding. Yes, he thought. Yes, she is.

  Chapter 28

  Mercy ignored the sting of tears in her eyes and charged home. She had already wasted enough time helping Walker. There was no point in wasting any more. What was she expecting anyhow? She wasn’t a detective and she certainly wasn’t on the payroll of the Toronto police. It was their job to find Clemmie’s killer, not hers. She had to mind her own matters and she needn’t have Detective Walker’s approval for that. She had done quite well enough without him all these years. She certainly wouldn’t miss him now.

  She suddenly felt embarrassed of herself. Imagine her, an unmarried woman, following him around the city wherever he led, performing whatever tricks he required of her, as if she were a trained dog or, worse, a hired mistress. Mercy nearly stopped dead in her tracks at the thought. Gracious heavens! Had she really given him such an impression? She closed her eyes briefly at the disgrace of it all. He thought she was setting her cap on him. As if she could ever be interested in such a man. A police officer!

  She quickened her pace, slamming her heels into the pavement as she walked.

  He was so relentlessly good, almost prudish, in the way he dealt with everything. She recalled the look on his face when she spoke of Edith’s father, as if he couldn’t fathom an unmarried woman having the slightest interest in sex. His assumption that she had been taken advantage of, against her will as well, was even further proof of his prudish nature.

  And he was always so in control of himself. His facial expressions gave nothing away. Usually, Mercy was able to read the emotions of people. It was a skill she had learned while perfecting her trade. But Jeremiah Walker was unreadable. One might believe him to be unfeeling and unaffected but Mercy knew better. He was always observing, always taking in information. She could tell that behind his eyes lay so much information about everyone and everything. It was almost creepy the way he looked at her, like she had already performed some inexcusable transgression. That’s what hurt the most. She’d never win favour with him.

  Did she want to win favour with him?

  A new wave of tears flooded forward. She was an idiot. A trollop of the worst kind in his eyes. He hadn’t any sort of interest in her but that’s exactly what she had been hoping for this entire time, wasn’t it? Now she knew he was married and that was something she should have been able to read off him the first time they met. He didn’t look married. He didn’t exude the energy of being married. Heck, he scarcely even acted married. How was she supposed to know he had a wife?

  It didn’t matter. It was over. She had provided him with the information he needed to find Clemmie’s and Cynthia’s killer. Mercy’s obligation was done.

  She arrived home to find the front door of her house ajar, not by much, just the slightest inch, but it was enough to catch Mercy’s attention. She stood frozen on the stoop for a moment. Had Edith come home and not latched the door properly? It was nearing the end of the day. So much had happened and Mercy wasn’t about to take any chances.

  She knelt down to grab the iron boot scraper from the stoop. Making sure she had a good grip around it, she slowly pushed through the door opening, praying the entire time that it wouldn’t creak. Once inside the foyer, a shadow moved on the carpet, a shadow cast from the parlour, Mercy’s reading room. Mercy knew it wasn’t Edith because her daughter would never have gone in there without expressed permission from Mercy.

  She positioned herself along the wall and listened. They weren’t trying to be quiet and they weren’t being respectful. Mercy could hear the chairs at the table being moved and the doors of her cabinet opening as well. There was the sound of papers being pushed about and then the cabinet door closing. Mercy stiffened at the thought of Alistair George rummaging through her personal belongings. It wouldn’t be long before whoever it was would find her cowering in the hallway. She had to act. She had to act fast.

  Mercy pounced from her hiding place and raised the iron boot scraper over her head. She let out a throaty growl, a growl that was met with a startled scream.

  “Constance?” Mercy lowered the boot scraper as she registered the sight of her sister behind one of the chairs, using it as a barrier.

  “Gracious Providence, Mercy! Is that how you greet all the people who come to visit?” Constance was slow to lower the chair. She adjusted her sleeves and brushed a strand of hair back from her face.

  “Oh my goodness. I’m so sorry.”

  Constance went pale when she spied the boot scraper in Mercy’s hand. “What were you going to do with that?”

  “Bludgeon you to death… well… not you …exactly. I thought you were someone else.”

  Mercy replaced the boot scraper to the stoop and returned to find her sister still reeling from her fright. “What are you doing here?” Mercy asked.

  “I already said. I came to visit.”

  “No, what are you doing in here?” Mercy crossed the room and quickly pushed the drawer of her cabinet back into place, her hidden chocolates remaining undiscovered and safe.

  “I was looking for some salt.”

  “Salt?”

  “Yes, I’m making dinner,” Constance said. “And you are out of salt.”

  “What makes you think I’d have salt in my parlour?”

  Constance shrugged and headed for the hallway. “I don’t know. I thought maybe you put it along the windows and doors like Grandmother used to.” She turned at the entrance to the kitchen and watched as Mercy followed her down the hall.

  “No,” Mercy said, nearly laughing. “I can’t say that I have ever done that.”

  “Then I can’t say dinner will taste like much without it.”

  Mercy entered the kitchen in time to see her sister place the lid on the
Dutch oven and slide it into the stove. “What was that? Chicken?”

  “Pork, actually,” Constance said. “I picked it up on my way over.”

  “You came all the way over here to make me dinner?” Mercy eyed her sister suspiciously.

  “Well, actually I came over and waited a bit and then I went to the butcher’s.”

  “Is Alexander’s drinking getting bad again?” Mercy asked, hoping her voice didn’t betray her annoyance.

  “No, no. He’s not been… he’s getting better. Much better, actually.”

  Mercy shook her head and went straight for the sink, where dishes from breakfast remained coated in porridge. She imagined Constance’s kitchen didn’t look so dishevelled. She’d have washed the dishes while they were still warm from the stove. Even now Mercy had no desire to do dishes but she felt she had to with her sister standing over her, judging her ability to keep house. Or inability, in this case.

  “I didn’t do them this time,” Constance said. “Like you asked.”

  Mercy nodded and turned the tap to run the water. Last time Constance had come over unannounced she took it upon herself to do the dishes and clean the kitchen in a manner Mercy hadn’t done in years. At the time Constance said she was only trying to help but to Mercy it had been a statement, a belief that Mercy wasn’t able to accomplish it herself. This had been a carry-over from their childhood. As the elder sister Constance would often make up for Mercy’s shortcomings when it came to household chores. The alternative was both of them getting reprimands for a task ill-performed. It was just easier for Constance to do it than allow Mercy to take her lumps. Neither of them liked it very much when the other was being scolded, especially when it was their stepfather performing the scolding.

  Now as an adult Mercy had no interest in her sister cleaning up her messes. She was determined to do better, with every intention of seeing the floor scrubbed and the rugs beaten on a more regular basis, but sometimes with her own business to run and other responsibilities needing her attention these menial tasks fell further and further down her list of priorities.

  “Mustn’t be easy,” Constance said, almost apologetically from her seat at the kitchen table. “Acting as both mother and father.”

  Mercy didn’t know what to say. She had been assuming the roles for so long she wasn’t sure how different it would be if she had a husband. Certain things would be easier, she knew that, but others would be more difficult, and that’s what scared her most.

  “Perhaps that’s why Mother married so quickly after Father died.”

  Mercy stayed quiet. She cared little for her mother’s reasons. She hated the man and wondered how it could have been any worse if their mother had simply remained a widow.

  “She’s all alone now. And she said she’d truly love to see you and Edith.”

  Mercy turned off the water. “So that’s what this is about?” She could feel her heartbeat quickening. “You’ve come here to try to convince me to visit Mother.”

  “Mercy, I know how you feel—”

  “Yes, I imagine you do know how I feel.” With anger punctuating her movements, Mercy plucked a tea towel from a nearby hook and began drying the dishes she had just washed.

  “Stephen has passed—”

  “Lord be praised!”

  Constance stopped and gave Mercy a look of reprove. “Mercy.”

  “I will not wish restful peace on a man such as that. He chased all five of our brothers out of the house almost as soon as he entered it, which left you and I to fend for ourselves against that… that brute.”

  “Mother says it’s all in the past.”

  “Of course she says such things. It’s only to alleviate her much-deserved guilt.” Mercy threw down the tea towel. “We’ve had this conversation before, Constance. No! No, I will not be in the same room as that woman. And if you push the issue again, I’ll have to cut ties with you too.”

  “You cannot mean that!”

  “Oh I do.”

  “What about Edith?”

  “Edith is exactly who I am doing this for.”

  “Mercy Marigold Eaton, sometimes you can be so… so…”

  “So what? Stubborn? Pigheaded?”

  “I was going to say self-righteous.”

  “Then so be it. It’s better to be self-righteous than sorry.”

  Constance took a breath. “The phrase is better to be safe than sorry.”

  Mercy waved her hand dismissively and walked for the door. “I don’t have time for this. I’ve had a very trying day and I’m not in the right mindset for the same debate we’ve had a hundred times.”

  Constance followed her to her reading room. “What exactly about your day has been so trying?”

  Mercy stopped to look at her sister squarely. “For God’s sake, Connie, you haven’t the faintest clue what I have been up to. If you did, you wouldn’t be speaking to me like that.”

  “Tell me then,” Constance charged. “Tell me what has been so stressful as to put you in such a foul mood.”

  Mercy was trying hard to bite her tongue. She couldn’t speak about the case. Any nuggets to the newspapers could jeopardize Walker’s investigation.

  “It’s about that detective, isn’t it? Walker. You’ve been caught up in something involving him, haven’t you?” When Mercy didn’t say anything, Constance smiled. “I saw the way you were looking at him.”

  “Constance, stop.”

  Constance must have seen the pain in Mercy’s eyes. Suddenly, all anger was forgotten and her expression softened. “What is it?” she asked. “What happened?”

  Mercy closed her eyes to stop the flow of tears and sat down hard in a nearby chair. “He’s married,” she said, surprising herself with her emotional reaction. She raised her hands to her face to further hide her embarrassment. “I was falling in love with him and then I found out he’s married.”

  “Oh, Mercy.” Seconds later, Constance was at her side, hugging her shoulders and hushing her softly. And just like that they were each others’ best friend again.

  “Someone’s at the door,” Mercy said, pulling away from her sister’s embrace. She brushed away the tears in her eyes. “Edith is home from school.”

  Seconds later the brass knob on the front door turned and the door popped open. Edith glanced into the room, only peeking her head around the corner. “Hello, Mother… Aunt Connie.” She did not stay and wait for their reply. She was at the stairs and heading upward when Mercy called out.

  “How was school today?” She hoped she didn’t sound like she had been crying.

  “Fine.”

  “Anything interesting happen?”

  “No.”

  The door to her bedroom closed quickly. Mercy and Constance exchanged glances.

  “Is she always like this when she comes home now?” Constance asked.

  Mercy frowned. “You never know the temper she will be in day to day. It’s typical for her age, or so they tell me.”

  Constance offered a look of pity. Mercy wondered if perhaps her sister was grateful for not having children of her own, especially with a husband like hers. Their mother had seven with her first husband and two with her second, though only one of them survived infancy. By all accounts neither of them should be barren but Mercy had no husband and Connie’s was useless.

  “Oh goodness, look at the time. I must go. Alex is leaving in the morning for Buffalo.” Constance went to the hall, pulled her shawl from the hall stand, and met Mercy at the front door. “The pork roast should be ready in an hour. Keep stoking the stove to keep it hot.”

  “I know,” Mercy said.

  “You might want to make some gravy. Of course, it won’t taste very good without a pinch of salt.”

  “I’ll buy some salt,” Mercy said with a laugh.

  Constance reached out a hand and placed it on Mercy’s cheek. “Forget about Detective Walker. You’ll find someone. You never know who’s going to walk through that door next.” She gave a smile, wrapped her sh
awl around her shoulders, and headed out into the evening.

  Her sister’s words of comfort had little effect. Mercy had never wanted Walker in the first place. She was not interested in a husband. Any feelings she may have had for Walker in particular were a fluke and didn’t necessarily indicate any need for a life partner. Clearly, Constance had mistaken her desire for a particular man for a desire for any man.

  Chapter 29

  Detective Walker nearly fell into his desk chair. Propping up his elbows, he leaned into his desk and rubbed his temples. A pain behind his eyes had begun an hour before and only worsened when he was forced to let his prime suspect walk out the station doors.

  Something inside him told him the murders of Mrs. Bolton and Clemmie Howden were related. Both women were around the same age and both had been asphyxiated. But the similarities ended there.

  Clemmie was alone, her nearest relative thousands of miles away while Bolton had a husband. Bolton had a child whereas Clemmie had been pregnant, which didn’t result in a baby. Nothing related to the other and yet he was struck by the few similarities. The murders must be related in some way.

  MacNeal walked into the room and rounded the desk, heading for the chair opposite Walker.

  “Any sightings of Louis Bolton?” Jeremiah asked, following the sergeant’s movements.

  “No, sir,” MacNeal answered, taking a seat in his own chair.

  “Not even a body matching Bolton’s description?” Walker knew the man had likely ripped his stitches by then. He was surprised they weren’t following a trail of blood that would lead them right to him.

  MacNeal shook his head. “He’s vanished.”

  “Along with the baby, I presume.” Walker dropped a closed fist on the desktop. “Two women are killed within the same twenty-four hours and the only thing that connects them is the manner of their deaths.” He pinched his face in anguish. “Why couldn’t it have been Nigel?”

  “Even without Mr. Gladstone’s alibi, you’d have had a difficult time convincing a jury that he killed Cynthia Bolton. They aren’t connected in any way.”